It’s not as dusty as I imagined it would be. There are cobwebs in the corners and it could use a good cleaning, but it looks like it’s been occupied recently.
“Well, is it everything you hoped for?” Walker looks up at me from the ladder.
“It’s cleaner than I expected.”
“I think Sawyer was up here not too long ago,” he says, his palms setting on the floor. He lifts himself up into the room with me. “Peck has a brother named Vincent. Sawyer is his boy. They live an hour or so away, so we don’t see them too much. Just when Nana puts her foot down.”
Spinning in a circle, I take in the nuances of an area that’s definitely all boy. There are three folding chairs lined up neatly along one wall with a sign that reads, “Gibson Boys—Stay Out Blaire”.
“Who’s Blaire?” I ask as Walker gets to the top.
He groans as he unfolds as far as he can into the tight space. Hunkered over, he doesn’t hesitate to take a seat in one of the chairs. “Blaire’s my sister.”
“I think Nana mentioned her.” Still looking around, I take in the carvings in the wood and the candy wrappers piled into a mound on the floor. It’s the perfect little boy hangout. It brings a smile to my cheeks.
“What are you grinning about?” he asks.
“This is everything I always wanted, except maybe purple curtains and not the pocket knives,” I laugh. “It’s adorable.”
“I spent half my childhood up here, I bet. Carving twigs, eating the cake we stole from Nana’s that was supposed to wait until after dinner, making plans for world domination.” He rests his elbows on his knees. “It was an easier time of my life.”
“Would you go back?”
His head falls to the side as he ponders my question. “Probably. You?”
“No. I had a great childhood and all that, but growing pains were hard.”
“I can’t imagine anything being hard for you. You just go with the flow and fix shit. It seems like it’s ingrained in you.”
Grabbing a chair and scooting it a few feet away from him, I get situated on the cool metal seat. “Sometimes I feel like everything is hard for me,” I admit. “I know that’s not true. My life is pretty charmed. But for whatever reason, it seems like I can’t figure anything out.”
The air shifts between us and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “Are you talking about me?”
“I wasn’t,” I say truthfully. “But it applies, I guess.”
His head drops, hanging between his two muscled biceps. My breathing shallows as I watch him absorb my admission.
“Tell me about Blaire,” I redirect, not wanting to get into another pissing match with him. “She doesn’t come around?”
“She lives in Chicago,” he says, his voice ragged like its slipping past a parched throat. “She’s an attorney. Kind of a big deal.”
“That’s awesome.”
“She thinks so,” he grins. “She’s super fucking smart and a black belt in some random martial art. We don’t get to see her much these days.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Eh,” he shrugs.
There’s a purposeful playoff to my question that leads me to believe he misses her more than he’s letting on. “What about your parents? Do you see them often?”
His hands twist in front of him. “My parents passed away a few years back.”
A lump the size of an egg lodges in my throat as I watch a swath of pain wash across his face. I try for a moment to imagine what it would feel like not to have my parents. Just the thought chips a giant hole in my heart big enough that I find myself placing a hand over the organ as if the piercing pain is real. “Oh, Walker. I’m sorry.”
“It was an accident. On a boat on the Fourth of July. Shit happens, you know?”
“I can’t imagine.”
He half-shrugs, half-nods, and seems to kind of fall away into his head for a moment. Watching him makes me wonder how lonely he is without his parents and sister.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask, hoping to see his smile again. I do.
“What kind of question is that?”
“One people ask when they’re curious. Do you hunt? Fish? Date a lot?”
“No.”
Tilting my head to the ceiling, I make a point of ensuring he hears my exasperated sigh. He makes sure I hear his chuckle in response. Lowering my face, I give him a playful look. “Don’t get too in depth there, Walker. I’d hate for you to run out of words.”
“What?” he laughs. “I don’t hunt. I do fish some, but not a lot. And I don’t date a lot.”
“You could probably find more dates if you’d stop being such an ass,” I joke.
“I don’t not date from a lack of opportunities, Slugger,” he says, lifting a brow.